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Discovering Diverse Content Through
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old chimney, like Christmas prayers flying heavenward. The crackling
of the wood and the fluttering of the flames joined in a Christmas
carol for all the world.
Not the smallest fragment of the log must be left over after the
twelve-day feast. It had lain seasoning in the sunshine and the
starshine, in the rain and in the wind, in the frost and in the dew, in
winter cold and summer heat, that it might be well prepared to give
itself wholly to the sacrifice. Had a remnant remained in the ashes,
disaster would have marked the year until the next Yule Log had
removed the ban by entirely disappearing. Virginia had not received,
with the traditional heritage, the Old World custom of preserving a
fragment of one Yule Log to serve as a lighting torch for the next
and to ward off evil demons until Christmas came again. The
servants were to have holiday while there was a scrap of it left.
The ashes of the Yule Log were carefully saved apart from the
others, as they were of peculiar sacredness. Lye made from them
was of magic efficacy in the manufacture of soap, bringing it to a
much-desired degree of hardness and excellence. The negroes used
the lye to kill evil spirits and free themselves from the sins they had
committed during the year.
Old Santa Claus's rack, the "chimbly rack," made of black walnut and
handsomely decorated, with nails driven into it on which the
stockings were to be hung, was brought in by Uncle Charles and
placed above the marble mantelpiece. Over each nail was printed
the name of the one for whom it was intended. Aunt Serena brought
in the basket of stockings that she had knit of the finest spun cotton
or wool and hung them on the nails, singing her Christmas
incantation, "Christmas comes but once't a yeah, En ebby las' niggah
has his sheah." The loved ones who had gone before were
remembered and stockings for them were hung upon the rack. Their
gifts were of money to be used in providing Christmas cheer for the
unfortunate, the bereaved and the lonely. Thus was the memory of
those who had passed beyond kept in grateful hearts.
From the wall above the portrait of my grandfather Underwood, with
long hair and velvet-flowered vest and rolls of cravat, looked
seriously down. I had never seen him, but my grandmother said that
"he believed in God, woman and blood; was proud but not haughty,
hospitable, generous, firm and unchangeable in his opinions, quiet
and commanding, affectionate, courting responsibilities instead of
shirking them."
For weeks all had been busy with preparations. The wood had been
cut and piled, the corn gathered, the pigs killed, the mince-meat and
souse and fruit cake prepared, the sausage chopped and the hominy
beaten, the winter clothes all spun, woven and made. We sat by the
fire with rest, peace and wonder in our hearts, cracking nuts and
roasting apples, the old silver punch-bowl of apple-toddy steaming
on the table, while we listened to stories of olden times and of times
that never were. My uncle in his cadet uniform, home for the
holidays on furlough from the Virginia Military Institute, told us
fascinating tales of soldier-boy life, sending delicious thrills of joy
and terror through every nerve.
Presently my black mammy took me in her motherly arms and
carried me along the hall through the middle of the house, flanked
by doors opening into the living rooms, up the wide stairway into
another long corridor bounded by the same number of doors leading
into bedrooms all in their Christmas dress of arbor-vitæ, holly and
mistletoe. In each of the fireplaces were wood and kindling to be lit
when the guests should arrive on the morrow. Into the prettiest and
smallest room she carried me and put me into my little eider-downy
trundle bed.
The next morning I was awakened by the music of the Christmas
horns and the popping of firecrackers. When I had been dressed I
was taken to the dining-room, where my grandmother stood by a
table whereon was a large bowl of egg-nog from which, with a silver
ladle, she was filling glasses for us all, for even the babies in old
Virginia were given a taste of egg-nog on Christmas morning.
After breakfast my grandmother went to service and would return
with guests who were to come to us after the Christmas sermon in
the lavishly decorated village church.
Soon the first carriage rolled into the yard, the coachman proudly
flourishing the whip, which he used merely as an insignia of his
office. "Dar dey come! Dar dey come! Dar dey come!" We all ran out
to welcome the visitors. The carriage doors were opened, the steps
folded up on the inside were let down, and the servants called out
"Christmus gif', Marse, Christmus gif', Missus," all holding out their
hands and clamoring as my uncle emerged from the coach, "I cotch
him firs'! I cotch him firs'! I cotch Miss firs', didn' I, Marse?" each
claiming the reward, regardless of actual priority in time.
My uncle was immaculate in frock coat and trousers of black
broadcloth, new boots, snowy linen front trimmed profusely with
ruffles, high collar and stock and shining silk hat. He turned with
courtly grace and helped Auntie from the carriage.
Auntie was the wonder of my childhood. I fancied that if I should be
very good and learn my lessons perfectly and avoid giving trouble to
my elders, and say my prayers and read my Bible at the rate of one
chapter every day and five on Sunday maybe the Lord would let me
grow up as proper and as smart, but never as religious, as Auntie. In
the meantime I liked to stand in remote corners unobserved and
imagine that I was forming myself upon her. Her speckless,
wrinkleless, swishing new black brocaded silk frock looked as if it
had been moulded around her. Her crinoline stood out in a perfectly
balanced symmetrical balloon of unapproachable beauty. Her oval
face held just the right proportion of pink and white and her mouth
was bowed at the temperance curve. Her sharp gray eyes looked
into the center of things. She was a strict Methodist, a fierce Whig,
an uncompromising moralist.
A little boy was handed out and then a screaming bundle which
turned out to be a baby girl.
The carriage was laden with boxes and packages of Christmas gifts
—a present for each servant and other articles to be put with our
Christmas stockings still hanging on the rack.
From the next carriage my father and mother alighted—my father,
always my ideal, tall, stately, erect as an Indian, seemed to me more
than usually handsome as he lifted me up to a level with his classic
face. His holiday attire, snowy ruffles, rigid stock, black broadcloth
and, above all, the flowers of his brocaded vest, were to me an
inexhaustible source of delight. My beautiful mother's coal-black hair,
without wave or crinkle, was carried plainly from her face and wound
in a plaited coil. She was very fair and her cheeks looked as if they
had stolen two of the pink roses from the garden of May. Her eyes
were like sparkling sapphires. Her black moire-antique dress had
wide bishop sleeves, and she wore a white crêpe shawl that, falling
back, revealed the square of fine embroidered white thread cambric
around her neck, crossing in front to form a V.
When all the family carriages had come a stranger might have
wondered if grandmother's house could hold the many who claimed
her Yuletide hospitality. We knew that her home was measured by
her heart.
My father, the oldest son-in-law, was the first to take down his
Christmas stocking from Santa's rack. He was always sure of a knife,
a black stock and a silk bandanna, whatever else old Santa might
have left for him. His last year's knife was then given to the
foreman. We who could not reach so high were held up to take
down our stockings.
The plantation servants never failed to offer their tributes of
affection to the Master and his family and to receive gifts from them.
Among their numerous presents were always a plug of tobacco, a
pipe and a bandanna handkerchief for each. All the servants who
had been working away from home came back at Christmas and
added their gifts to those "w'at Marse Santa had done fotch down de
chimbly." Many of my grandmother's servants had been away from
the home plantation, being allowed to choose their places of service
and to return if they did not find them satisfactory.
Dinner was the great event that followed. Every leaf had been put
into the old mahogany table, and another table added at each end.
A turkey which had been penned up for weeks to fatten and become
tender, stuffed with pecan nuts, lay in delicious brownness on a
china platter. Opposite was a roast pig with an orange in its mouth,
"kase pigs kin have apples every day, but come Christmus 'course
even pigs must have sump'n extra," my mammy explained. On one
side of the table was a huge dish of fried oysters, on the other an
old Smithfield ham, baked as it could be only by one born to the art.
Sweet and sour pickles and preserves, for which Aunt Dilsey was
famous, were scattered about among all the vegetables known to a
Virginia plantation. On a side table were a saddle of mutton, a round
of beef and a bowl of chicken salad. On another table was the
dessert—sillibub, tipsy-cake, charlotte-russe, mince-pies, plain cake
and fruit cake, to be followed by the plum pudding, flaming with
magic fires which must be left to burn out of themselves, lest some
of the glow they held in their fiery hearts should fail to be diffused
throughout our lives in the coming year. The sideboard glistened
with decanters and glasses and great bowls of apple-toddy and egg-
nog.
All the good things left were sent to supplement the feast of the
servants which they had spent days in preparing. It was spread in
the wide old weaving-room, the loom being hidden by decorations of
holly and mistletoe. We went in to see their table with its beautiful
ornamentations, loaded with goodies, 'possum and sweet potatoes
at each end. The 'possums had been caught early and fed in a
lavishly hospitable manner, that they might wax fat and juicy for the
feast.
After dinner papa and the uncles, followed by the boy friends and
cousins, went out to the office in the yard a short distance from the
mansion house and soon such mirthful peals issued therefrom that
curiosity called us all out and the house was deserted while we sat
listening to such stories and jokes as we shall never enjoy again.
Then they talked of fox hunts, of the prancing gray and the good old
red that had carried them to victory, the music of the horns, the
baying of the hounds, the laughing girls, all eager for the brush.
Crouched by my grandmother's side, I heard about last year's crops,
the condition of the roads, the neighborhood news, the latest styles
in collars and stocks, politics, bits of history and appreciations of
literature.
At night "Fiddling Jim" was called in, and in the room where the
Yule-fire burned there was a dance, opening with the minuet and
winding up with the Virginia reel. In all the dances my grandmother
joined with a lightness and grace that would have done honor to
sixteen. Youth no more than age served as a bar to pleasure, and I
danced the Highland fling and other fancy dances.
Then the sandman came by and mammy took me up to my little
trundle bed. Half lost between waking and sleeping, I heard the
crunching of the snow beneath the tread of horses and the roll of
wheels and knew that some of the guests who lived near were
returning to their homes. Melodies, dance-songs and the shuffling
and pattering of feet, mingled with the thrum of the banjo, bones
and fiddle, floated from the negro quarters.
Soon old mammy and her turban, the black faces, the hand-fed
lamb, the goats and dogs, the coons and the rabbits, the peacocks'
gorgeous big-eyed tails, and long-whiskered Santa Claus, my
grandmother, my mothers lovely eyes and the Blessed Babe in the
manger, all got mixed up in a tangle of shadows and came sliding
between the peeping, twinkling stars on a moonbeam into the room
and danced around my trundle bed.
With my tender little heart full of child love and unwavering faith, my
wee soul borne on the higher sentiments of adoration, faith and
spiritual sympathy, my Christmas dolly clasped close in my arms, my
lips wreathed in mysterious smiles, I laughed and—a-n-d—a-n—
Christmas was over.
 IX
GREENBRIER WHITE SULPHUR SPRINGS

Only twice had I seen my Soldier since with tearful eyes I watched
the United States transport, St. Louis, bear him away to join in the
frontier warfare, and later to play his important part in holding San
Juan and other Pacific Islands against the British. Occasionally letters
came from that far-off sunset shore in answer to my little printed
notes before I had learned to write well.
The last time I had seen him was at the Greenbrier White Sulphur
Springs, where, though still a child, I held that he was pledged to
me and resented his attentions to the belles nearer his own age.
Amused and pleased by this, he humored me by devoting most of
his mornings to joining in my games and assisting me in sketching,
and by dancing in the evening with no one but me until the
children's bed-time came, when the ballroom was reluctantly given
up to the grown people. One Baltimore beauty took my Soldier to
task for his bad taste in dancing with a child, thereby cancelling the
little friendship which had existed between them.
White Sulphur Springs, situated in a valley surrounded by hills and
mountains, was the most celebrated watering-place in Virginia. It
was known to the Indians as the most important lick of the deer and
elk. Its medicinal qualities first became known in 1772, when an
Indian maiden, suffering from a disease which baffled the skill of the
"medicine men," was healed by its waters. It is a beautiful and
enchanting spot, the valley opening half a mile in breadth, winding
in graceful undulations from east to west beyond the line of vision.
The fountain issues from the foot of a gentle slope which ends in the
low interval of a beautiful river. The ground ascends from the spring
eastward, spreading into a lawn covering fifty acres. Over the
fountain was a stately Doric dome, supported by twelve large pillars
and surmounted by a statue of Hygeia looking toward the rising sun.
A short distance from the spring were the hotel, dining-hall and
ballroom. The rest of the ground was occupied by cottages, some of
brick, some of wood, and a few of logs, whitewashed. The cabins
were all painted white.
The winding roads, leading away into an enchanted world of
greenery, were veritable Cupid's paths, opening sometimes into the
springtime vales of gay flirtation, sometimes into the warm, deep
dells of love. Many were the belles and beaux who met their fate
amid the leaf-walled environment of Greenbrier and more matches
were made there than in heaven.
My Soldier's furlough soon came to a close and he left, by chance,
the day we did. I shall never forget the ride on the top of the old
stagecoach, the wonderful red and gold foliage, the birds that sang
in the autumn trees, the good dinner at the hotel, the stories told
me by my Soldier, who knew everything, I thought. Of the name
Greenbrier he said:
"Old Colonel John Lewis, whose grandson you danced with this
summer, named this river in 1751 because of its thick growth of
green-briers in which his son, Andrew, was once entangled. It had
been owned by the French. In 1749 a hunter, wandering through the
woods, came to the river-bank and observed that the water ran in a
direction opposite from the usual course and reported it, exciting the
curiosity of two New Englanders, Jacob Martin and Stephen Sewall.
They took up land there, living together in a little cabin until one day
they quarreled and separated. One made his home in a hollow tree,
the other keeping the cabin in which they had formerly dwelt in
peace with the world, themselves and each other. They agreed never
to say anything to each other but 'Good morning, Mr. Martin,' 'Good
morning, Mr. Sewall,' confining themselves to this limited
conversation for the remainder of their years."
My Soldier told me of the Indian wars after peace had been
confirmed between England and France, the Dunmore wars, the
massacre at Muddy Creek where, under the guise of friendship, the
Indians had descended upon the settlers and destroyed their village,
the attack of two hundred Indians upon Donnally Fort, and the
bravery of the old negro, Dick Pointer, whose freedom was
purchased by the State of Virginia in reward for his services. In his
helpless old age an unsuccessful effort was made to secure a
pension for him. Comparing his fate with that of alleged soldiers of
later years who volunteered to do guard duty around their homes for
three days, receiving pensions for their courageous efforts, one
might wish that he had lived in a later period and served a more
appreciative government.
From White Sulphur I returned to my father's home, brightened now
by three brothers and two sisters, all of whom had seen so little of
"Sister" that they knew nothing of her shortcomings and thought she
was the greatest thing in the world.
Then lessons began in earnest and stern duties came to interrupt
childish diversions. When the course laid out for me at home was
completed, my father decided to take me to Lynchburg Seminary. It
was a serious epoch for me, as I was to go among strangers for the
first time, so the farewells were solemn.
As a parting present, "Uncle Charles" brought me a nest of guinea
eggs, a box of sweet gum which he had been collecting for months,
a string of chinquapins and some dried haws, saying as he gave
them to me:
"Honey, don't fergit de ole man en bring him sump'n, en remember
you's born but you ain't dead yit."
Others of the servants came with blessings and farewell gifts. Mary-
Frances, who always received more presents than her twin sister
and was noted for her stinginess, bade me a pathetic good-bye,
assuring me that she was "gwine to be good en 'vide her light'ood
and things wid Arabella." As I had disapproved of her selfish refusal
to share her "light'ood" with her sister she thought this promise of
generosity would be the best gift she could bestow upon me as a
parting keepsake.
After tender farewells from mother, sisters, and brothers I started off
with my father on what seemed to me a long, long journey.
At Richmond a man in uniform boarded the train. I looked at him
with admiration as he came down the aisle. He was tall and walked
erectly with graceful carriage and a commanding air not dependent
upon his military dress. He stopped and spoke to my father, who
arose, greeted him cordially and, turning back the seat, invited him
to join us. He accepted and my father introduced "Colonel Robert E.
Lee." The Colonel shook hands with me in a gentle way and began
to barter for one of my long curls. In my diffidence I did not close
with any of his offers, though I would have given every curl on my
head for the asking, for even then, to my romantic vision, Colonel
Lee was a hero.
He said that he had just returned from Harper's Ferry, where there
had been great excitement. John Brown had descended upon the
town and taken possession of the United States Arsenal. Colonel
Lee, home on furlough from the West, had been sent with the
marines from the Washington barracks and four companies of troops
from Fortress Monroe to dispossess them and restore quiet to the
little town in the Virginia hills. It was not alone Harper's Ferry that
had been terrorized; the entire state had been thrown into a turmoil
of excitement.
To a child whose infancy had shuddered at the story of the Nat
Turner insurrection of 1832, the John Brown raid in 1859 was a
subject of horrible fascination, and I listened intently as Colonel Lee
talked of this strange old fanatic and his followers.
"What do you think would be the effect upon the negro, Mr. Corbell,"
Colonel Lee asked my father, "if we should be compelled to hang
John Brown?"
My father replied, "Well, I've thought of that, too, Colonel, and I
asked my foreman, who is a representative of his race, if he did not
think we ought to hang old John Brown." He looked at me earnestly
for a while then, shaking his head slowly, said, "I knows, Marse Dae,
dat po' Marse John done en bruk de law, killin' all dem mens; but
den, Marse Dae, even ef po' Marse John did bre'k de law, don't you
think, suh, dat hangin' him would be a li'l abrupt?"
Colonel Lee laughed and replied, "I think that just about expresses
the sentiment not only of the colored people but of many others."
They agreed that John Brown was an honest, earnest, courageous
old man and that his friends ought to put him where he would be
cared for.
My eyes were turned steadily toward Colonel Lee with a large
measure of that admiration he won from observers older and more
experienced than I. Yet I could not have told what manner of man
he was, except that he was impressive in appearance and that he
drew people toward him with a subtle attraction which was
indescribable as well as irresistible.
The story of John Brown was graphically told and heard with
absorbed attention, but it is not likely that the Virginia planter with
all his knowledge of history and character, nor the great soldier with
his military training, recognized signs of the impending storm any
more than did the wide-eyed child lost in breathless wonderment
over the thrilling episode.
At the next station the Colonel left us and I went on into the hill
country.
 X
THE BREAKING OF THE STORM

I was a student at Lynchburg Seminary when the storm that had

begun to lower at Harper's Ferry broke in full force. To a few
prescient minds I think it brought no shock of surprise. Some had
watched the little cloud on the horizon till it had overspread the
zenith. But most of us, old as well as young, had felt secure "in the
land where we lay dreaming."
Virginia held longest by the Union, the bonds of which had clasped
the States together until the Old Dominion had forgotten that
political ties are not eternal. Since the brave Thirteen had banded
together to fight for liberty, Virginia had clung with unswerving
tenacity to the central idea that had kept the States together
through many severe tests of loyalty. Forged in the fires of the
Revolution, the chain that bound her to the Union of States had
grown stronger with the years and with the blood of many battles.
The Mother of Presidents and of patriotic Statesmen, her devotion to
the welfare of the nation was of unusual depth and ardor. Politicians
sought to drag her allegiance from the flag whose stars lit the path
of her great sons, Washington, Jefferson, Madison, and the many
who had worthily represented her in the work of building up the
nation, but the people stood firmly by their historic and hereditary
faith. There was but one thing that could shake her fidelity. When
she was called upon for aid in a contest against her sister States
loyalty to the nation gave way to loyalty to the South and home and
kindred, and Virginia joined the Confederacy.
To some the bells which rang out the tidings of the rising of the new
star in the Southern flag were joy-bells of victory; to many they
tolled the death-knell of a long, proud era. But the new banner
floated gloriously to the breeze, huzzas rang out triumphantly and all
was glowing to the vision of hope.
The fires of patriotism burned hotly in the heart of youth and there
were Stars and Bars enough in Lynchburg Seminary to light a world
of new-born nations to victory and set up invincible barriers to the
universe. Some weeks later when the news of the battle of
Manassas came surging along the line, we felt that events had
justified our enthusiasm. In imagination we beheld our flag floating
over a great new country that should rival the nations of the world in
beauty and glory.
We saw then only the bonfires of joy and heard only the pæans of
victory, but a few days later, when my friend, Major John W. Daniel,
was brought to his home in Lynchburg with a wound received in that
battle which we had celebrated with such triumphant delight, I
began to feel that war meant something more than the thrill of
martial music and the shouts of victory. Major Daniel had been my
friend from childhood, strong, handsome and gallant, and when I
saw him in suffering helplessness I felt for the first time something
of the power of war to strike down life with all its hopes and dreams
and ambitions. He was soon able to return to the field, doing brave
service for the cause until he was so badly wounded in the battle of
the Wilderness that he was forced to retire. Even more gratefully
does Virginia cherish the courageous work he has since done in the
United States Senate, and lovingly does she hold him in her heart
now that his brave and beautiful life has passed into the great
Memorial Hall of her proudest history. Through all the years he has
been a loyal friend to me and mine.
The passing of the ordinance of secession was the signal for the
return of the martial sons of Virginia. Every Federal post gave them
up to us, from Arlington, where Colonel Robert E. Lee laid down his
allegiance to the old flag, to the Pacific, where my Soldier had
upheld the integrity of his country against hostile Indians and foreign
foes.
In July, 1861, Captain Pickett resigned from the United States Army,
made a perilous journey from San Juan, passing by sea around to
New York, going thence to Canada and then southward, barely
escaping arrest three times. From the window of a railway car along
a Kentucky road is seen an old home where he spent a night in his
long journey. Government officers called there in search of him, but
he was protected by a ruse of his host and rode on the next
morning, reaching Richmond September 13, 1861. He at once
enlisted as a private, being immediately afterward commissioned as
Captain and a few days later promoted to a Colonelcy. His military
life from Richmond to Appomattox belongs to the history of the
nation.
By this time everyday life in Virginia had become invested with
difficulties even for those who might have been regarded as outside
the sphere of war. Not only the soldiers in the field had obstacles to
encounter; they loomed in the pathway of the school-girl.
My home being within the Federal lines, I spent a part of my
vacations with friends in Richmond. There I used to see General
Robert E. Lee riding along the street in the graceful way that years
before had brought people to their windows to see "the handsomest
man in the United States Army" ride down Pennsylvania Avenue in
Washington. The eyes of Richmond followed him with equal
admiration in these war days and I used to recall my first meeting
with him when the war was a dim prophecy. In a short time he was
sent away to Western Virginia, where he fought a valiant but losing
battle against mountains, rain, starvation, and Southern editors who
were gifted with a military genius never known to the leaders of
armies.
"I see that we have made a great mistake," the General lamented.
"We ought to have put the editors in the field and set the Generals
to managing the newspapers."
The streets of Richmond knew him no more until he returned in the
late autumn with no new laurels on his brow but with a strength of
soul that could abide the appointed time.
In our study halls we had fancied that we knew something of war.
We had cheered our flag, trembled for our soldiers at the front even
while we prophetically gloried in their future triumph, and celebrated
with great enthusiasm the battle of Manassas. We had made
sacrifices for our country, every girl of us having entrusted her
jewelry to the principal of the school to be sold for the benefit of our
cause. She had accepted the trust, saying that we might redeem our
possessions if we wished. Only one piece was ever reclaimed, a ring
given to one of the girls by her lover. When he was killed in battle
she took back the ring, paying in money for her treasure. Now I was
to learn something of what war meant.
 XI
THE "VIRGINIA"

On a morning that was like ideal May, the 8th of March, 1862, I sat
on my horse by the river bank at Blinkhorn, opposite Newport News.
My uncle, Colonel J. J. Phillips, was stationed there, and I had come
to the camp and was one of the hundreds gathered on the bank of
the Nansemond River at that point, all eyes turned with eager
interest toward Hampton Roads, where lay our new battleship, the
Virginia.
Like a phœnix, she had arisen from the wreck of the old frigate
Merrimac. Grim, solemn, weird, builded low upon the water, she was
not boat nor ram nor submarine, nor anything else hitherto known
to the waves. Newly clad in her robe of iron, she was a veiled
mystery, a forlorn hope, a theory, an armed engine, a steam battery
protected by armor, an experiment destined to change the course of
naval warfare. Being the first ship built in the Old Dominion, she was
named for her State, Virginia. Commanded by Captain Buchanan and
manned by a crew composed largely of landsmen who had
volunteered from the Army, she had waited in Hampton Roads for
the dawning of her day.
Through my field-glass I watched the Virginia gliding like a great
white bird hovering between the pulsing, scintillant blue of the
heavens above and the waters beneath. Accompanied by the
gunboats Raleigh and Beaufort, she passed along amid the cheers of
the enthusiastic onlookers thronging both banks and of the troops at
the batteries around the harbor. An awesome feeling took possession
of me, holding me silent until the enthusiasm of the crowd thrilled
me and I waved my handkerchief in messages of Godspeed to the
brave new craft.
Slowly she rounded Craney Island, lying like a blue-gray cloud over
the water, her batteries turned toward the Norfolk shore. The troops
waved their caps and sent up lusty cheers for the strange craft that
looked, as some one afterward said, "like a huge terrapin with a
large round chimney about the middle of its back." Having passed
the island, she turned into the south channel and slowly moved on
toward Newport News until, coming within firing range of the United
States frigates Congress and Cumberland, she was greeted with
broadsides from both. A flash of fire, pale against the white day, a
puff of smoke, widening, drifting, wreathing around the mouth of
the gun and floating off into space, a deep roar of thunder showed
us that our Virginia was bearing well her brave old name.
The enthusiasm which had greeted her appearance was as nothing
compared with the excitement that thrilled us now. Yells of
encouragement and defiance rent the air. Handkerchiefs fluttered;
hats were thrown aloft. Some of the men danced; others turned
somersaults of enthusiasm. One soldier rushed to Colonel Phillips
shouting, "Say, Colonel, say; can't we do something? Can't we help?
For God's sake, let us do something to help them!"
Fortunately there was no bridge from the shore to the scene of
action. Otherwise every man, woman and child among that seething
crowd might have rushed into the fight, to the embarrassment of the
plucky little Virginia. We could do our part only by going into
paroxysms of patriotism, in which we all excelled.
The Virginia went on up the channel, turned and, coming back, ran
full against the Cumberland, penetrating her side with the sharp
prow of the Confederate ironclad. The frigate reeled, shuddered, and
began slowly to settle, her guns roaring from her deck. The
Congress came to her assistance, but the shots which rained from
the two frigates fell harmlessly from the slanting sides of the
Virginia.
With fascinated eyes I watched the Cumberland tossing upon the
waves, gradually sinking, firing another volley as her bow went
down, then disappearing under the water, the flag that floated from
her masthead still fluttering above the sea.
For days we had seen that frigate with her mate, the Congress,
threatening us, a blot upon our waters, a monster, a thing of evil,
waiting for the moment of fate. But it was pitiful to watch her go
down, and I think every heart there felt a pride in that pennant
waving defiantly above the water, even while we cheered our
victorious Virginia. She went on, turned and came back to attack the
Congress which, in trying to escape, ran aground. She was soon
ablaze, banners of flame flapping out from her rigging. In an hour
her flag fell.
We were told afterward that in one of the ships which we could
dimly descry in the distance, an old man waited for the battle and
for tidings of his son, commander of the Congress. When they told
him that the flag was down he said sadly, "Then Joe is dead!" He
knew by that signal that his son "Joe," Captain Joseph B. Smith, had
fallen.
The Raleigh and Beaufort drew up beside the flaming Congress,
under a heavy fire from the Federal batteries on the Newport News
shore which not only did execution upon the crews of the
Confederate gunboats, but proved fatal to some of the prisoners
from the burning frigate. The Virginia's launch rowed toward the
Congress and was struck by a volley from the Federal battery.
Beyond the Congress the Minnesota lay aground. Before the
surrender of the Congress the Patrick Henry, Thomas Jefferson and
Teazer, the James River squadron, passed the Federal batteries, the
Patrick Henry was struck through the boiler and was towed out of
action by the Thomas Jefferson, returning after repairs and running
up close to the grounded Minnesota, being light and able to come
nearer than the heavier ironclad. Till night fell we watched the
gunboats raining shot upon the Minnesota, the Virginia, from her
greater distance, occasionally firing ponderously upon the grounded
frigate. When darkness prevented correct aim the Virginia and her
sturdy little assistants retired, slowly moving to Sewell's Point. We
returned to our homes, awed by the grandeur of the scene,
sorrowful for the lost lives, but triumphant in the victory won by our
brave little craft.
Those who watched through the hours of darkness beheld a brilliant
fire-scene displayed against the velvety night. Steadily the Congress
had flamed upward, paling the stars in its red glow. At midnight
banners of flame, showers of stars, fiery serpents writhing upward in
sinuous pathways through the dense columns of smoke, marked the
end.
That night a new-comer arrived and next morning was lying behind
the grounded Minnesota—a queer object, afterward described as "a
tin can on a shingle." It was Erickson's little Monitor, commanded by
Captain Worden and manned by a volunteer crew, for no one was
ordered for service on the odd little craft with its revolving turret.
The position was risky and no officer wanted to reflect later that he
had sent men to death on a wild experiment.
Those who could get a clear view of the stranger thought that she
was a raft sent to save the crew of the Minnesota, but she steamed
up toward the Virginia with a war-like expression which left no doubt
as to her real character. From tidings sent from New York we had
expected the new invention down in our waters, but our imagination
had not wound itself around anything so funny looking and we did
not recognize her until she revealed herself.
I was early at my post, eager to see the end of the fray. My uncle
had his boat ready to put out to the scene of action.
"Oh, uncle, may I go?" I cried, running after him.
"No, no!" he shouted. "Go back!"
He stepped into the boat and pulled off without looking behind and
did not see that I followed and took a seat in the boat, with sketch-
book and pencil, prepared to take battle views at first hand. Perhaps
an artist of to-day might regard my sketch-book with some degree
of scorn, constructed as it was of wall paper, turned plain side out,
cut into leaves of convenient size, and bound together, the
handiwork of my ingenious grandmother. It was the best the
Confederacy could afford just then and perhaps it served the
purpose as well as a more artistic outfit might have done. I shall
never forget the look of horrified amazement that overspread my
uncle's face as he chanced to look backward.
"You little dare-devil, you!" he called out, "I've a good mind to drown
you!"
The absurdity of the situation flashed upon him and his shout of
laughter rang over the water. We were too far out to admit of
turning back to put me ashore and there was nothing he could do
but endure my company.
"You needn't think I am going to try to keep you out of danger, you
disobedient, incorrigible little minx," he said indignantly. "It would
serve you right if you were shot."
I was not thinking of danger. It was my first chance at a sea-fight
and I was not going to miss it.
Thus I watched the first battle of iron-clad warships. Apparently
recognizing the fact that they had in a moment become useless
lumber, the old-time wooden structures drew aside and observed the
novel contest. The two little giants were almost touching and
broadside after broadside poured into each other. My uncle was
absorbed in watching the scene.
"Let me see! Let me see!" I cried all aquiver with excitement.
"I will not let you see, you miserable little wretch!" he replied.
Then relenting, he gave me the field-glass. "Well, here; look! Be
careful or you will lose your balance and fall overboard, though I
reckon it would be a good thing if you did. Teach you better than to
put yourself where you have no business."
His sense of humor, as usual, saved the situation, and he laughed
again. I think there was never a time since I routed him out at
midnight to take a neck-breaking ride in a hail-storm that I was not
an amusing, as well as a terrifying conundrum to my unfortunate
uncle. He good-naturedly shared his glass with disobedient little me
and I watched the contest.
The storm that rained upon the Virginia was of solid shot and shell,
while it had been impossible to provide the Confederate ram with
anything but shell. The armor of the Monitor was thicker than that of
her antagonist but the inclination of the sides of the Virginia, causing
the shot to glance harmlessly, offset that advantage. The Virginia
suddenly ran aground and the Monitor was quick to avail herself of
the mishap, but before we were certain of the peril of our champion
she was off and making an effort to run down the Monitor. The bow
of the Virginia was directly against her antagonist and we saw the
Federal ship careen dangerously. When they separated a shell from
our ironclad struck the pilot-house of the Monitor. We afterward
learned that her commander, Lieutenant Worden, was disabled.
The Minnesota was helpless and as the Virginia turned toward her
we expected that she would be sunk. But, probably to the delight of
those on board the frigate as well as to the infinite dismay of us who
looked on, our little steamer went on her way toward Sewell's Point
and then to the Navy Yard. Our disappointment was very great and
as we were rowing home my uncle said reflectively:
"By George, it looks as if the Lord was on the side of those damned
Yankees."
It was the first time I had ever heard him admit the possibility that
Providence could be on the wrong side of anything.
We heard later that, so certain seemed the destruction of the
Minnesota, her captain was making preparations to fire and abandon
her when, to his surprise, the Merrimac, or Virginia, as we renamed
her, turned homeward.
Our captain afterward explained that he thought his last shot had
disabled the Monitor and he dared not stay any longer in those
waters because the Virginia had so heavy a draught that it was
impossible for her to cross the bar after ebb-tide.
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